


perspective

by deadlybride



Series: kink bingo fills [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Parent/Child Incest, Pining, Pre-Stanford, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 23:56:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15424479
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadlybride/pseuds/deadlybride
Summary: Sam's an outsider in his family. He has to adapt in order to figure out what's going on.





	perspective

**Author's Note:**

> written for the 2018 SPNKinkBingo, filling the 'voyeurism' square; for my 'Full House of Wincest' bingo card for the variations on how this could go, this fills the square 'Sam always knows'

Sam’s sleeping when the door to the motel room opens. A creak that pops his eyes wide against his pillow; a rustle in bed next to him. He’s finally good enough at pretending that he doesn’t move, and makes sure his shoulders rise and fall on slow steady breaths. Practice makes perfect, that’s what Dean always says, and Sam’s been practicing a lot since he—well, since he found out about everything, with the journal and all.

“Everything okay?” says Dad, his voice all low and rough, like he’s been coughing.

Dean makes a little hmm sound. It’s real dark and the only light’s coming from the big blue-and-red neon sign outside the window, advertising for cheap rooms and a four-dollar pancake breakfast at the attached diner. The pancakes were gross, but Dean says four dollars is four dollars.

Another rustle, and then a thunk when something heavy hits the floor. “Careful, kiddo,” says Dad, and Dean whispers back, “Sorry, heavier than I thought.” Sam wishes he’d been facing the door when Dad came in, just so he can see. Even though he knows the big secret, what the _family business_ is really all about, Dad still doesn’t like talking about it with him. Everything gets filtered through Dean, and even then Dean likes to keep stuff to himself. Like he’s a big shot, or something. Sam’s nine, halfway to ten. He’s not a _baby_. He’s plenty old enough to understand.

Dean and Dad are talking again, one of those superquiet conversations they have whenever Dad comes home after a few days away. _You okay on food,_ and _is school going all right_ , and _money hold up?_ Yes, is always what Dean says. Doesn’t matter if it’s true or not. _I thought lying was bad_ , Sam had said, mad and trying not to cry again over Dad going away on another “business trip” before they worked out a way to tell him that Sam found the journal; Dean had shaken his head, looking tired, and said back _sometimes you just have to_ — _say what makes things easy. It’s not like it’s bad, Sammy. It’s just the way things are._

Sam’s still not sure about that. Seems to him like Dean and Dad lie all the time, but Sam’s never allowed to get away with it. Well, he’s been practicing. He stretches and makes a tiny noise in his chest, kinda like he’s heard Dean make before, and flops over onto his other side on the mattress. Dean and Dad pause and the room’s quiet, just the hum of the heater under the big window making any noise at all. Sam keeps his eyes lightly closed and breathes steady, and after a few seconds there’s another rustle, the bags getting unpacked again. He has to forcibly stop himself from smiling.

When he dares, he slits his eyes open, just barely. Dean’s sitting on the counter in the kitchenette, whispering to Dad about how the job went. At the little kitchen table, Dad’s unpacking guns—lots of guns, like way more than Sam even knew they had. “Caleb gave me a good deal,” Dad says, low. “Hit that light, buddy.”

“Sammy might wake up,” Dean whispers back, but he reaches up anyway, fumbling for the little switch above the sink. It’s a tiny canister light, kinda yellowy and not really much to see by, but it’s enough to light up the sink, the little counter, the coffeepot when it’s the crack of dawn before school and Dean makes himself a cup. When it goes on it makes Sam squint his eyes closed for a second, but there’s a narrow cone of light that shows off Dean’s crazy bedhead, his Rolling Stones t-shirt with all the holes that Dad says he’s only allowed to sleep in and not wear outside anymore. The edge of Dad’s shoulder, all slumped and tired-looking in his big leather coat. Dad picks up one of the big pistols and turns it over so it glints silvery in the light.

“Whoa,” Dean says, appreciative, and Dad lets out a snort.

“Yeah, it’s a monster,” he says, but he doesn’t say it like he does when he and Dean talk about the other kinds of monsters. “What do you say we take it out for some practice in the woods tomorrow.”

“Yeah!” Dean says, a little louder, and then covers his mouth.

Dad shakes his head, but Sam can see the gleam of his teeth in the light—he’s smiling. “C’mere,” he says, quiet, and Dean slides off the counter with a soft thud of his feet hitting the linoleum, and when he gets in close enough Dad wraps an arm around him. Not a hug, really, just—holding. Sam bites his bottom lip.

“Okay,” Dad says, after a slow moment of quiet. “I’m bushed. I’m gonna wash up. You parcel these out into the bags and then head back to bed, soldier. We’ve got a lot to do in the morning.”

“Yes, sir,” Dean whispers, and Dad drops a kiss on his head, just quick against his hair, and gets up with a groan.

“I’m gettin’ old, kiddo,” he says, stretching his hands up high to the ceiling.

“You already are old,” Dean whispers, and ducks away when Dad goes to screw up his hair even more.

Sam has to close his eyes when Dad walks past the beds, and then the light goes on in the bathroom and the door shuts, and then there’s just the clanky metal on the table, the rustles and zips from the bags. The tub turns on for a while, and then the higher hiss of the shower. Sam peeks again at Dean, working alone in the dim yellow light. Used to be he wanted to jump up, wanted to say: _ha, see? Told you I could keep a secret! Fooled you!_ Only, he realized pretty quick that that would kinda defeat the purpose of sneaking in the first place. Better to keep it for himself. In their life that’s all tiny motel rooms and the backseat, where everything’s shared because how could it not be—Dean and Dad have their secrets and Sam, well, he’s making room for his.

*

When Sam turns twelve, that exact minute, they’re on a long-haul drive across the country. He’s yawning, stretched out in the backseat, trying to read under a tiny glow of cupped-careful flashlight so Dad won’t snap at him about lights on while he’s driving, and he doesn’t quite realize what’s happened until he gets a massive stinging slap to his shin, and he says, “Ow, what the heck was that!” but Dean’s saying, “Happy birthday, you little nerd!”

Sam blinks, and turns his flashlight on his watch. Midnight. That means it’s May 2nd, for real.

“Should we sing?” Dean says, leaning over the back of the front seat. “Hey, Dad, should we sing? Baby Sammy’s all grown up!”

“Knock it off,” Dad says, but it’s easy. He looks at Sam in the rearview mirror, and Sam can’t tell if he’s smiling but his eyes are crinkled, kinda, in the narrow rectangle of face he can see. “Happy birthday, Sammy.”

“It’s Sam,” he says, but he’s grinning and it ruins the effect. Dean and Dad just roll their eyes in unison, anyway, which is sorta funny because Dad’s still facing the road and Dean’s still leaning over the seat to annoy Sam.

“How am I gonna get in your birthday swats in the car, is what I want to know,” Dean says. He hums, like he’s thinking (fat chance!), and then leans over further to flick Sam’s knee—not hard, just a little thump. Sam slaps at his hand, but Dean just switches to the other knee and thumps him again, and then Dean grabs his ankle and holds it hard and gives him ten more quick little flicks to the bare skin just above his sock while Sam squeaks and wriggles and tries to pretend he’s not laughing.

“Christ, will you two calm down?” Dad says, and gives a swat to Dean’s butt where he’s crouched up on the seat. Harder than Sam’s flicks, a loud smack in the car interior, and Dean yelps. “You’re gonna make me drive off the road. Ass down.”

Dean lets go of Sam’s ankle and plops back into his seat. “Sorry, sir,” he says, but he still twists around with his elbow on the seatback. “Okay, squirt. You’ve been twelve for, uh, what—four minutes. What’s your great big birthday wish?”

They pass by a big sign that gets lit up in the Impala’s headlights: _Tennessee_ — _America at Its Best!_ That means they’ve covered over seven hundred miles, just today. He’s smarter than to say what he’s wishing out loud. “Don’t be dumb, you’re not supposed to tell wishes,” he says, instead. Dean raises his eyebrows over the seatback and Sam shakes his head, letting his bangs settle over his face. “Anyway, it doesn’t work without cake, right? Blowing out candles? I think I read that in the lore.”

Dean goes _pfft_ , but he grins, too, and even Dad lets out a little snort. “This is where we failed,” Dean says, leaning over to Dad with a loud fake whisper. “He likes _cake_ more than pie. What kind of Winchester is he?”

Dad pushes Dean back over to his side of the car and looks up into the rearview again. “Tell you what,” he says. “Town coming up here in about five miles, they’ve got a twenty-four-hour diner that’s not half bad. Why don’t we see if they’ve got a slice of cake.”

“Really?” Sam says, sitting up too fast, and then he clears his throat. “Um, sure. That would be good.”

“Cake,” Dean says, shaking his head again, but he pops out the Aerosmith they’ve been listening to for the past forever-many miles and slots in a new tape. He must’ve planned it—La Grange starts, right away. Sam’s favorite. He grins and crams the obituary he’s using as a marker into his spot in the book, lets it drop down to the empty side of the seat. Five miles is plenty of time to get through the song. Dean _haw haws_ along, but even that can’t stop Sam from loving it.

The only cake the diner has is kinda sad carrot cake and Dean produces such a look of horror at the idea of birthday vegetables that Sam asks for a slice of whatever pie they’ve got, instead. It’s not like he _hates_ it. Lemon meringue appears on the table, along with cups of coffee for Dad and Dean and a Coke for Sam, and when the tired waitress leaves Dean strikes a match and holds it out, grinning. Sam rolls his eyes but he blows it out anyway, and keeps his wish to himself.

The pie’s good; the meatloaf special is better, once they get real dinner. Dad and Dean get burgers, and Dad checks out the local newspaper on his side of the table while Dean jostles Sam with his elbow and steals a bite of mashed potatoes and threatens Sam with an all-time world record noogie if Sam steals any of his fries in retaliation. They’re the only customers, other than one trucker-looking guy who’s mowing down a sandwich at the far end of the counter, and—okay, so it’s one in the morning and they’re in a kinda grody diner in some middle-of-nowhere Tennessee town, which is so far from normal Sam doesn’t even know how to think about it, but—it’s his birthday, and he’s feeling pretty happy. It’s a good day. Night. Whatever.

There’s a motel a little ways down from the diner. Dad gets them a room with two queens, way on the far end of the building even though there’s hardly any other cars in the parking lot. It's pretty clean and it doesn't smell like cigarettes, which makes it a win in Sam's book. He's not tired, not after the Coke and the faint buzz of birthday, so Dad lets him turn on the TV and see if there's a movie on—and there is, even if it's just a crappy horror movie on one of the late-night channels. They all watch one of the guys get murdered by an actor in a bad werewolf costume, and Dad snorts when the cherry-syrup blood goes everywhere and then goes to take a shower. Dean plops down on the bed, kicks his boots off and says, "Hey, five bucks that the blonde chick dies before the end," and Sam sprawls out on his belly on his half of the mattress and says, "Deal," even though he doesn't actually have five bucks, but Dean never actually makes him pay back these bets, anyway. He figures he's safe. There's another tinny fake scream from that one actress with the boobs practically hanging out of her shirt, and Dean laughs. "Think she'd make that much noise with a real werewolf chasing her?" he says, and Sam shakes his head, but he smiles, too, and leans his shoulder against Dean's hip.

When he wakes up, later, the shower's still running. The room's dark, and the TV's off. He missed the end of the movie. He blinks against his folded arms, his mouth sour from not brushing his teeth, and listens for a second. No snoring. When he turns his head, Dean's not on his half of the bed and Dad's bed is empty, too. His belly spasms, way down low, and he drags in a shaky muffled breath against his arm.

He rolls off the end of the bed, landing soft on the carpet in his socked feet. Just to be thorough he goes over to the window, parts the dusty dangling blinds with one finger, but—yeah, the Impala's still camped in its spot outside the room. Sam takes a deep breath, turning back around. There's a solid line of light creeping out from under the bathroom door, making the carpet mossy green instead of uniform shadow. He chews on his lip, for a few seconds.

On his knees, folded all the way over, he presses his ear against the door. It's cheap, probably just a step or two above cardboard, and sound bleeds right through. The shower's loud, but he closes his eyes and listens hard. Hiss of water, flat sound of drops hitting the curtain, but then—oh god. The squeak of skin on the plasticky-porcelain tub. He listens a little longer and—and there's a grunt, not too loud but loud enough that Sam can hear it, and oh man, just like that he's got a stiffy in his jeans, so fast that he has cover his mouth to not make a sound.

They're sneaky, but they're not _that_ sneaky, and Sam sleeps light. His belly clenches again and he licks his lips. Does he dare? He still hasn't gotten a real look, not since that time in Topeka before Christmas, and even then he could hardly see anything. He sits up on his knees, licks his lips, and stares at the doorknob glinting just barely in the mostly-dark. Well—he can't know if he doesn't at least try, right. If the door's locked then, whatever.

The knob turns, even with his palm all sweaty. He takes in a breath through his wide-open mouth and carefully turns it back, and then wipes both his hands on his jeans. A few seconds. The shower keeps running. He turns the doorknob again, millimeter by millimeter, until he can hear the latch click back inside, ever-so-quiet. He just hangs there, for a second, staring, and then presses so gently that if the paint sticks or if the door's warped or something, it won't move enough to make a sound–but the door moves. He breathes, and pushes just the tiniest bit more. Light bursts forward around the outline of the door and the sound of the shower is a lot louder, now. He keeps his hand locked tight around the knob so that nothing will rattle and pushes forward a tiny bit more. A solid inch, enough to see by. He gulps air, his mouth open, and then puts his face up against the door and peeks in.

Blinding light, for a second. Steam curls out against his face. Crouched low on the floor as he is Sam's at eye-level with the toilet bowl, but behind it is the shower against the back wall, and in the strange slice that he can see the curtain's closed. Of course. Stupid, why didn't he expect—but, oh. The top part's clear, see-through for some reason. He sinks his teeth into his lip and tilts his head, dares to push the door just another centimeter wider, and—oh. God.

Their clothes are a pile on the linoleum floor. They're in the shower together. Sam doesn't dare blink. Above the seamed line of the curtain, where it goes from semi-opaque blue-pattern to clear plastic up to the rungs, there's the solid line of Dad's shoulders, his head bent under the spray with his hair all plastered down. Dean's standing close behind him, his face resting against Dad's shoulder blade, and through the watery steam-fogged smear of the plastic Sam can't tell if his eyes are closed, or not. He can't tell if they're—if they're _doing_ anything. They've gotten nudie channels at a few of the motels and there have been a few skeezy magazines carried around in the Impala. Sam knows what grown-ups do, he's pretty sure. He doesn't think of Dean like a grown-up, and he's never seen Dean do anything like _that_ with Dad, but he thinks—he thinks maybe they have.

While he's watching, trying to breathe silently, Dad lifts up his head and he says something, so low that Sam can't hear it over the shower. Dean pulls back a few inches, and then Dad turns around, and one of his hands appears and touches Dean's face, slow, his fingers dragging blurrily along until he's tipping up Dean's chin, and then he leans down and kisses—Dean's forehead. Sam's breath catches in his chest. He hears Dean say, just high enough above the water, _promise?_ and then Dad says something like _soon_ , and then he drops down and kisses Dean's cheek, and Dean tilts his face for it and Sam can _see_ the blur of his red mouth through the curtain, but that turns him towards the door, and—

Sam pulls the door closed, silent, balancing the weight so careful that there's no sound when it settles back into the frame. He holds onto the knob, his breath heaving in his chest, and then gingerly turns it again so that it latches back into place. His dick's so stiff in his jeans that he feels like he's throbbing. He scrambles back on his heels away from the bathroom door, wriggles back along the carpet until he's tucked into the narrow space between their bed and the wall, and then he just shoves at his clothes. His belt and jeans and boxers are all secondhand and loose and they push down straight off his hips, make a tight circle around his thighs so he can barely move, but that doesn't matter—his dick springs out stiff and ready and he spits on his hand and wraps his palm around the hot pole of it, his whole belly and everything zinging just from the touch, and oh man, this is gonna be quick. He jerks himself tight and quick, his other hand over his mouth to make sure he doesn't make a sound, and it feels— _wow,_ oh crap, his muscles are clenching up already and his mind flashes weirdly just onto the way Dad tilted Dean's chin up, the way Dean was looking up at him, and—oh, he grunts muffled into his sweaty fingers and shoots, the thin runnel of wet dribbling over his fingers while he wrings at himself.

Jeez. Sam lays there, panting, his hand still locked around his junk. It's sticky, but the mess isn't huge. He blinks hotly at the dark ceiling, the shower still running behind the door. He hardly saw anything. Heck, he and Dean used to take baths together, when he was still little. It doesn't have to be weird.

 _Soon_ , he thinks, and his belly spasms and his hand tightens on his dick all over again.

That time in Topeka—that had been hardly anything, either. Freezing cold outside but the car had been warm, and he'd been drifting in and out of almost sleep for hours when they pulled into the motel parking lot. Nothing _happened_. Only the shift into park, and Sam's eyes slitting barely open to check what was going on because that's the only way he ever learned anything in this family, and then watching Dean in the front seat biting his lip, and then scooting closer to Dad, and Dad putting his hand on the back of Dean's neck and putting his lips on Dean's forehead. Nothing at all, nothing to even think about, only—Dean's face. He'd bet five bucks—a hundred, a thousand—that he was wearing the exact same look in the shower, just now.

Speaking of—the shower turns off. Sam's eyes fly open. He wipes his hand on the carpet under the bed and then yanks his jeans up his hips, squirming on his back on the carpet. Quick, silent, he slips back onto the mattress and sprawls out on his belly, the wrong way around with his socks up on the pillows, just like he was when he fell asleep watching the movie—and not a moment too soon, because Dean cracks the door open and slips out, a towel around his waist as he moves in the wedge of light over to his bag, pulls out clean boxers, that ratty ancient Stones shirt. Sam keeps totally still, face half-buried in his folded arms. Dean drops the towel and he's so—white-and-pink, shiny with damp, and he moves easy as he tugs up the boxers, drops the t-shirt over his head. He scrubs his hair one more time with the towel and slings it over the chair. Sam slams his eyes shut when he turns around and just listens as his footsteps pad over the carpet, as he snorts a little and then tugs the blankets out of their tight tuck, jostling the mattress.

"Hey, dork," Dean whispers, poking his calf. Sam makes a sleepy-sounding noise and buries his face further in his arms. His heart beats so fast and loud in his throat that surely, somehow, Dean'll hear it. Dean sighs and wraps his hand all the way around Sam's leg. "Suit yourself," he whispers, and then the mattress tilts as Dean drops himself onto his half, slipping under the covers so that even when his leg settles along Sam's side there's a barrier between them.

Sam's hand smells. He curls it into a fist under his head, focuses on the slow deep breathing he's been faking for forever. There's rustling from the bathroom, the shower curtain rattling, and then the light flicks off and there's the sound of Dad's heavier feet on the carpet.

"He asleep?" he says, real low, and then there's a pause. Sam has to keep his eyes closed, his face buried. Weight shifts, on the mattress, and then there's a sort of—smoochy sound, and another. He can literally feel the blood race into his cheeks, they get so hot. It's a good thing it's dark. "Okay," Dad says, after a minute. His voice is rougher. "I need to go check a lead. I'll be back in an hour or two. You're in charge, Dean."

"Yes, sir," Dean whispers, and then there's another pause, one that makes Dad make a weird noise.

"You're killing me, kid," he says. It doesn't sound half-laughing like it usually does.

There's quiet, and then the jingle of keys, and then the door opens and closes. Dean sighs and turns over, the mattress wobbling under his weight. His breath comes loud enough that Sam can hear it, sort of uneven. Almost like—crying, only Sam doesn't get why. He wants to turn over, wants to sit up and look into Dean's face and figure out what's going on, and why, and _how_ , but he doesn't dare to. That would mean a lot of questions, and probably fighting, and he just—there's no way.

Dean's breathing calms down, after a little while. A while after that he starts to snore, that steady sawing that's so much quieter than Dad's snores. Sam unclenches, finally, and sags into the mattress, all his muscles sore from holding himself so desperately still. He lets out a huge breath. He's so wired, he doesn't see how he can possibly fall asleep.

When he wakes up it's to a stinging slap on his butt. "Rise and shine, squirt!" Dean says, and Sam squeals and tries to scramble away on the bed, but Dean catches him around the waist and finishes the job while Sam tries to shove him off. It doesn't hurt, but goddamn it, it's the principle of the thing. Dean's bigger, though, probably always will be, and Sam can't get away more than an inch before he gets the last spank and a "One to grow on!" crowed over the top of his head.

"You already did this!" Sam says, rolling away when he finally gets the opportunity. He rubs his butt, wincing. Okay, that last one did actually kinda hurt.

Dean grins at him, knelt up on the foot of the bed. He's fully-dressed, his boots even on, and the room's full of summertime light. "Flicks don't count, everyone knows it has to be real spanks," he says, condescending, and then laughs when Sam sticks his tongue out.

"Where's Dad?" Sam says, sliding off the other side of the bed.

"Coffee run," Dean says. He looks Sam up and down. "Can't believe you slept in your clothes, dork. Go on, get washed up. He'll be back soon and then we gotta get on the road."

He takes a shower. It's just a shower. He's not tall enough to see above the line where the clear plastic starts. He washes his hair, and scrubs all over, and then he bites his tongue and darts a look at the closed curtain, and slips his hand down to his junk. Hardly takes a minute before he's holding another stiffy in his hand and he rubs one out, quick, eyes closed and imagining—imagining—

"Hey, took you long enough," Dean says, when he comes out wrapped in one of the big towels. He's waiting on the end of the bed, and Dad's still not back, and there's a rectangle of wrapped-up newspaper next to Dean on the mattress. Sam's eyes go to it, immediately, and then dart up to Dean's face. Dean shrugs, and holds it out. "Happy birthday, Sammy."

" _Sam_ ," Sam says, but he takes the package in both hands and plops straight down onto the carpet to tear it open. It's—four, six, _ten_ new comic books. Really new, not stolen or rescued from the secondhand bin. X-Men, and Superman, and Spiderman, and Fantastic Four. Sam blinks and looks up, all of the covers fanned out on the floor in front of him.

Dean grins. "You think this'll tide you over for a while, _Sam_?"

"This is awesome," Sam says, and he's so glad that he doesn't even punch Dean in the leg for the sarcastic tone. He surges up to his feet and hugs Dean around the neck, since he can reach with Dean sitting down, and Dean makes a fake choking sound but he puts his hand on Sam's bare back, too, folds him into a hug. They don't hug much, anymore. Sam doesn't know how to say that he misses it.

"Come on," Dean says, quieter, and pats Sam's bare side. "Clothes. Maybe I can get Dad to take us out for pancakes, huh?"

Sam sniffs, and nods against Dean's shoulder. "I want waffles," he says, and pulls back.

Dean smiles at him and pushes his damp hair back from his forehead. "Waffles," he says, nodding seriously like they've come to some big agreement.

There's a grumble of engine outside. Dad's back. Dean's eyes go straight to the door. "Clothes, Sammy," Dean says, standing up.

Sam gathers his comics off the ground and holds them tight to his chest. Dean's already at the door, and then out of it, saying something under the sound of the engine and road-noise, the door half-closing behind him. Sam bites his lip, wants to eavesdrop on whatever it is they're saying, but—for now, he'll let them have whatever secret. He has his own to hold onto.

*

Greeley, Colorado, is a dumb and terrible waste of space. A waste of the paper they used to count the census; a waste of time for the surveyors to plot out the land; a waste of every brick laid and ounce of cement poured and a waste of all of the reeking disgusting cowshit that permeates the air. Sam lays in his bed, miserable, staring at the greyish pimpled ceiling for too long, the scratchy blanket pulled up to his chest. It's been weird and spring-ish for a few weeks now—warm one day, snowing the next—and in his crappy narrow single he's too warm, but if he pushes the blanket down he's too cold. Typical.

The alarm finally goes off. Sam doesn't move. It's one of those annoying brash alarms, like a too-loud dial tone. He hates it, too. Thirty seconds, maybe a minute, before there's a stir from the rat's nest of tangled blankets on the far side of the room and Dean's croak issues forth: "Fuck's sake, Sammy."

Sam heaves a sigh, and unfolds his arm from the hot tent of his blanket. A smack and the alarm goes silent. The burrow in the other corner subsides and he thinks he hears _thank god_ , but it's so muffled it could've been something else. He shoves the blanket down and drags himself up to sit, cross-legged. Digs the heels of his palms into his eyes, drags his hands through his hair. He read in health class—was it this school? the school before?—that teenagers are supposed to get eight to ten hours of sleep, on average. A scattered five doesn't feel like enough.

He blinks and realizes that he's been sitting, slumped, for about ten minutes. Up. Time to get up.

Shove up to his feet. Clean clothes. Out into the colder upstairs hallway, down to the bathroom, wait for the shower to so-slowly heat up to a reasonable temperature, the pipes frantically banging inside the thin walls. He stands there for a while under the water, trying to wake up. What a shitty night.

They're renting, semi-legitimately; have been for almost three months now. This house is weird, narrow. The best thing about it is that Sam and Dean get their own room upstairs, with Dad alone in the bigger one at the far end of the landing. His door's closed when Sam comes out of the bathroom, dressed and sorta-clean and still toweling off his hair. Sam can't hear any snoring behind it. He hopes Dad's actually sleeping, and not just drinking. There's been more of that, lately. Dean doesn't like him to mention it.

Back in their room, Dean hasn’t budged. It's a tiny box of a space and with both of their piles of laundry it's starting to smell funky—feet and sweat and jeans unwashed too long, not to mention the smoke-and-char smell Dean brings home from a hunt. The sun's starting to creep in the uncovered window. Sam sits down on his mattress, six inches off the floor, and laces up his sneakers, and tries not to look at the bundled-up hunch of Dean on the other bed. No injuries. Sam had been wide awake and pacing and trying not to grind his teeth out of his head when they finally got home. Three in the morning and they both reeked, and Dad had blood splashed up to his knees and Dean looked like he'd rolled through a burning building, but they both promised. No injuries, nothing that Sam could help with—just let us crash, Sammy, just don't be a pain in the ass. No big deal. Just a hunt. It's just the job, same as always.

Sam grabs his coat, his backpack. His essay on Gatsby is only half-done. In the tiny kitchen he opens the fridge and looks at all of the nothing that's there, and closes it again and puts the last two pieces of bread in the toaster. Smear of peanut butter between them, gulped-down glass of the funny-tasting tap water, and then it's out the door, locking them in behind him and the walk to school, two miles of awful Greeley air and awful Greeley cracked-apart sidewalks and, as he gets closer, awful Greeley people in their trucks and minivans, their dumb kids looking at the window at that weird poor Winchester kid who never talks to anyone.

First period is Mrs. Winslow, sophomore English, and Sam slumps into his seat in the third row and props his head on his fist so he looks halfway awake. Everyone else hands their essays forward and then Mrs. Winslow is going on, again, about the stupid green light on the dock and what it represents. Sam looks out the window.

The hunt was supposed to be two days. Five hours of driving there, five hours back, and they were sure it'd be a quick in-and-out. Even quicker because Dean was going along. He hadn't bothered enrolling for a couple of schools now, so it's not like he was worried about truancy. _Back before you know it, Sammy_ , Dean had said, and then Dad honked in the car outside and Dean grabbed his bag and was out the door without even a goodbye. And, okay, that was fine. Sam's not a little kid, he doesn't need babysitting. Day three wasn't that big a deal. Day four—looking out the window, sitting on the floor in the kitchen with the phone just above his head, trying to concentrate on geometry homework when all of the worst images kept coming into his head. He'd been grit-eyed awake there, his ass long since fallen asleep on the linoleum, when the rumble of the engine cut through the aluminum siding and he'd realized that, no, it wasn't just his imagination.

Mrs. Winslow asks him a question. He drags his hand over his face. "I didn't do the reading," he says, which is a lie, and then, "sorry," which is also a lie. The redheaded girl from Spanish gives him a weird look. It's cloudy outside, maybe going to rain. He hopes not. The stench from the stockyards is unbearable when everything's wet.

The bell rings, at last. He wends his way through the halls to his locker. Gets out his history textbook, and holds it in his hands for a long thirty seconds. The kid at the locker next to him jostles his shoulder. There are six more periods left in the day.

It's easy to sneak off campus. Out past the gym, duck behind the baseball bleachers when the P.E. class is doing jumping-jacks and the fat coach is distracted, a quick jog across the thin grass to the fence. The big gate is held with a padlock so old Sam could pop the cylinder with a butter knife.

He keeps to side streets on the walk home, through the alleys between houses and ducking through the scrubby park just outside their pseudo-neighborhood. No need to invite a truancy check if he can avoid it; the school office will eventually notice that he ditched, but it's not like anyone at home will care. The breeze is chilly (and stinks) but the sun's warm, the clouds slowly clearing away. He sweats in his coat and walks slow.

The car's still in the narrow driveway when he makes it back—the only car on the whole narrow street. The neighborhood's empty except for that little old woman who's obsessed with her rosebushes and gives Sam and Dean both suspicious looks when they walk by. She squints at Sam, now, but he ignores her and hitches his bag higher on his shoulder. Dad said they were moving at the end of the month; her little opinion doesn't matter. Sam will take Nebraska over this craphole town.

He's quiet, coming into the house, just by habit. The door doesn't make a sound when he opens it or when he shuts it behind him. It's only like ten, anyway, so they're probably still sleeping. He slumps onto the popped-spring couch in the living room, heels off his sneakers, still absently holding onto his bag. The house is dark, the windows on the first floor covered up with sheets so no one can see in, and it's all dim yellow in here. He could read, maybe. He could finish that essay and hand it in late—he'd get some kind of grade, especially if he claims family emergency. He could do all sorts of things. He sits there.

Footsteps, upstairs. He blinks—he'd dozed off. A door opens and doesn't close, and he can hear someone pissing, the water echoey in the toilet, on the tile. Sam drags his hand over his face and sets his bag on the other half of the couch, drags his knees up to get comfortable. Flush, and then water splashing in the sink for a long time. He can't quite tell if it's Dad or if it's Dean. Oh—gargling, distantly quiet but unmistakable. Dean, then, for sure. Sam props his chin on his hand and listens, finds himself kinda smiling.

Another door opens, and there's a pause. "Hey," comes Dean's voice, from somewhere up the stairs. Low, quiet.

No response. The couch is backed up against the stairs, right by the door to the living room, so there's not much privacy between one floor and the other. It's been a pain, but Sam doesn't exactly mind it.

A thump. Sam can't identify it. Another, and then footsteps creaking across the wood floors—the landing, and then into the master bedroom, and then—oh, more creaking, because Dad's bed came with a box spring. Dad's bed.

It takes a minute, with his brain so sluggish, but when it kicks in Sam drops his hand and sits up straight. It's been a while. Blood floods up into his cheeks and he overheats, just like that. He holds his breath and listens hard, and—yeah. Yeah, that was the bed.

He peels his jacket off, slowly, drapes it over his backpack. Can't risk the stupid hood-ties jangling against the zipper. Three months and he knows where every weird creak is in the floor, every sprung board on every step. He balances his weight, goes on hands and knees up the stairs, slow and careful in the dim sepia light, and when his eyes clear the top step there's the dingy hall rug stretching out over the landing, the door at the end open wide, and in the bright midmorning light of the bedroom Dean's sitting in Dad's lap, his back to the door, and they're kissing. Dad's hand spreads wide over the small of Dean's back, his fingers digging into Dean's bare skin.

Sam breathes with his mouth wide-open, as quiet as he can. He shifts, crouching low on the stairs and ducking as close as he can to the railing, the dusty corner, tries to make himself almost invisible in the dim. Dad's hand slides up Dean's spine, up to hold the back of his neck over the cord of his amulet, and Dean tilts his head back, his breathing loud enough that Sam can hear while Dad's mouth moves to his throat. He's still wearing his boxers, Dad still covered up by the sheets. Dean holds onto Dad's arms and Sam doesn't know what he missed, what might have happened in the five minutes he spent so-carefully creeping up here, but already Dean's hips are shifting, his back flexing as he grinds himself into Dad's lap. He makes a sound—some little weird chest noise, not anything like words, and backs up, on his knees, tugging at the sheet as he goes. His ass flexes through the thin shorts. Dad's face is visible, now: a big bruise on his cheek creeping out from under his beard, his eyebrows a knot, his eyes squeezed tight closed. Dean's hands are busy in front of him and he looks up, but Dad doesn't open his eyes and neither of them say a word before Dean ducks his head down, his shoulders popped up high over Dad's thighs, and Sam can see the moment when it happens because Dad's mouth drops open and then his face eases, all the tension seeping out in an instant.

It's too hot in the stairwell, or at least Sam's too hot. Sweat springs up on his back and in his pits, his palms sweaty. He can hear Dean's mouth working, the wet sound of spit and sucking cheeks. Sam's dick has been at a half-chub since the moment he worked out what he was hearing, but that makes his gut clench warningly and he has to close his own eyes for a second, leaning his temple hard against the banister, almost dizzy. Holy crap. He listens to the slurp, the gasp when Dean must pull off for a second, the wet throat-noise when he goes back down. There's no heater running, no car noise, no music, no splashing shower. He can hardly believe his luck.

He has to look again when Dad finally makes a sound—not much, just a low grunt. Almost pained. His expression echoes the sound, his hands coming up to hold Dean's head, and while Sam's watching he shakes his head and pulls, lifts Dean up. Sam doesn't move, knows that in the dark of the hall and stair he's invisible, but even so his heart hammers in his throat when Dad's eyes open, when he looks into Dean's face while he gasps for air. He doesn't see Sam, though; he just looks at Dean, and then Dean says, so quiet and with his voice a rasp, "I want to."

Their bodies shift, awkward on the bed. Dad disentangles himself from Dean and swings his legs over the side of the mattress, tugs his shirt off over his head and drops it to the floor. Dean touches his bare back, kneeling there on the bed, before Dad stands up and goes over into a part of his room Sam can't see. Dean turns his head, biting his lip. His cheek's so flushed he almost looks sunburned. When Dad comes back he stands at the side of the bed and—and he's naked, all the way, his dick standing out hard and dark and big. Not the first time Sam's seen it, when they do this, but it's a gut-punch surprise every time. He's got more bruises, on his arms and on his leg, and he's hairy like Dean isn't and Sam wonders if he ever will be, dark all over. Dean shuffles closer, on his knees, and lifts up his face, and Dad touches his chin and then leans down and kisses him again, kind of slow but also wide, and wet, knocking Dean's mouth open. Dean's hands go to Dad's stomach, drag down to his dick and take it in a two-handed grip, just holding. His eyes squeeze shut. Dad's mouth pulls away, kisses Dean's cheek and then his forehead, and then he pushes at Dean's shoulders and Dean turns himself around, puts his back to Dad's, kneeling at the edge of the mattress. He helps when Dad pushes his boxers down, lifting one knee and then the other so that they can get tossed onto the floor with the rest of the clothes, and then he's all naked, too, white in the sunlight, his dick half-full. He drops down to hands and knees without Dad needing to guide him and his head hangs low, the amulet swinging forward under his chin, his shoulder blades standing out on his back. Compared to Dad he looks skinny, young, when Sam's always thought of him as bigger in every way.

Dad's got a little bottle in one hand. He squeezes it into one palm and then tosses it on the bed, and jerks himself slow, his dick shiny-wet in the light when his hand pulls away. Sam's mouth is dry from hanging open, his stomach sore from clenching in anticipation. Dad slips his wet thumb into Dean's crack and Dean flinches with his whole body but then presses back, arches, and then Dad's arm flexes and Dean lets out a low _ah_ , folding down to his elbows. Last year when Sam was supposed to be sleeping he laid wide-awake in the dark and listened to Dean fingering himself with that same lube, the wet squelchy noises amazing but nothing, nothing compared to the sounds Dean tried to muffle into the pillow. Dad works his thumb in and out a few times, and then shifts and pushes in with two, a single slow in-and-out that makes Dean gasp, and then that's it—he pulls back, slicks his hand down his dick again while Dean shifts on his knees, lifting his ass as high as it'll go, and then Dad crouches a little and lines up and pushes. Dean's hand clenches into the sheets but he moans, too, loud and open, his thighs shuddering as Dad sinks in, and in, and in, slow and steady until he's pushed up against Dean's body, his hands holding Dean's hips hard. He lets out a long breath, his face going tight. Dean turns his face to the side, biting into his own bicep, but he doesn't pull away, and when Dad doesn't move for a long moment Dean whispers _please_ and then louder says, "Please," and Dad groans and then finally shifts, a so-slow rocking of his hips, just a few gleaming-dark inches pulling in and out of Dean's body.

Sam slides his hand down, then, has to. His dick's throbbing so hard he's surprised he hasn't just come in his shorts. It's happened before. The mattress is creaking now, in steady rhythm with Dad's hips, and he uses that as cover to shift his weight, stretching out one leg on the stairs. In the sunlight like this is the best view ever. He doesn't dare unzip, but he holds his dick cupped in his palm and squeezes, matching the slow rhythm Dad's using. Like he's being careful. Dean's breathing like something's chasing him and he presses up again on one hand, an awkward angle that twists his back, shows off the sweat gleaming all down his spine.

"Please," he says again, or rather groans, and Sam's teeth sink into his lip at the ache in his voice. He doesn't get it—Dad's in there, he's fucking Dean like Dean wants—and Dad doesn't change his pace, either, just working in slow silent inches, his eyes closed. Dean groans again, his head dropping between his shoulders, and he says, "Dad," quiet, and then again with a whine tucked into his voice, and then he shifts his knees on the bed and pushes his hips back, fucks _back_ onto Dad's dick, and finally Dad makes a noise—a blown-out grunt, shocked. Dean heaves in a breath and does it again, faster, his ass slapping audibly into Dad's skin, and Dad lets go of one hip—leaves a white-red handprint when he does—and grabs one cheek of Dean's ass, pulling it open. He says _fuck_ , low, and Sam throbs because Dad almost never, he almost _never_ —and Dean drops his head down, hips working back, making himself pant and moan, and finally Dad says, low and almost nasty, "More? That's what you want?" and Dean nods frantically and then Dad grabs his hips again and _slams_ in, fucks in so hard there's a clapping sound like a solid spank, and Dean crumples right back down to his elbows and his toes curl tight. Dad pushes Dean forward, shoves his hips so hard that Dean lurches and his dick slides out, angry-hard and so wet, but Dean just scrambles forward and makes room and Dad knees up on the bed with Dean's thighs between his and picks Dean's hips up and shoves right back in, brutally fast, starts fucking him again right away. Makes Dean wail. Dad's laying flat, almost, and Dean's crushed in below him, and over the edge of the mattress from his vantage point Sam can hardly see Dean.

The springs are squeaking with every flex of Dad's ass and thighs and the roll of his hips and Dean's being bounced into the mattress, his voice almost constant now, a repeated jolted-out moan when Dad's dick crushes into him. Dad doesn't say anything, doesn't make a noise beyond harsh breathing, but Dean's making enough sound for the both of them and Sam can't take it anymore, he starts to rub himself through his jeans, working the trapped pole of his dick where it's caught awkward down against his thigh. Oh, god—Dean's feet draw up into the air, his toes curled. One of his hands sneaks back onto Dad's thigh, small there but dragging him in, dragging him harder, and Dad lifts up and plants a hand into Dean's back and he's _nailing_ Dean and everything in the base of Sam's belly coils up and his thighs clench and he comes just like that, ducking his head into the space behind the top stair to breathe open-mouthed and shudder through it. Oh god, oh god—and Dean cries out again, muffled like he's pressing his mouth into something, and even as Sam's unloading into the messy hot cotton of his boxers he has to drag his head up again, his belly shaking, because—because oh, Dad's slamming Dean so hard that it must hurt, it _has_ to, only Dean's still clutching at the back of his thigh and goading him on, and then Dad drops down and hides his face and _roars_ , this deep almost-angry sound that's smeared into something quieter against the back of Dean's head. His hips drag in tight against Dean's, and again. The muscle in his ass clenches hard.

The edge of each stair is digging into Sam's arm, his chest and belly and thigh. He feels so good that he barely notices it other than a distant discomfort. He cups his nuts through the loose crotch of his jeans, lets the feeling shudder through him, and watches while Dad picks his head up, while he drags in a deep breath and then pushes off of Dean's back, drags his knees up and sits up straight. "Hey," Sam hears, Dad's voice rough like at the end of a long hunt—and he pulls Dean up, too, gets him on his knees, his back pressed in tight against Dad's chest, his body shuddering. His dick's so hard it's standing straight out from his hips. Sam licks his lips, and bites them between his teeth when Dad's hand slips down and wraps around the whole length, covers Dean up, working him steady. Same rhythm Sam uses on himself, almost. Dean's head tips back against Dad's shoulder, his eyes closed and his mouth wide open, and Sam can't see Dad's face anymore but he can hear him, his voice steady and low:

 _That's it, buddy—come on, you can let it go. So good. You feel so good. You like that, don't you—yeah. Come on, kiddo, give it up. You took it so good, baby, you did so good, let me feel it, come on—_ and Dean clenches up and holds onto Dad's arm and shoots, thick repeated spurts over the bed, getting wet all over, his face bright red. For all the noise he was making before he hardly lets out a sound when he comes. Dad's hand keeps working, the sound of it wetter, and finally Dean grunts a pained little grunt and shudders, his face turning in toward Dad's—

Sam ducks down behind the landing, slips down one more stair so he knows he's fully covered. He closes his eyes and drops his sweaty forehead against the step, listens to them breathing. The wet sound of mouths. The bed shifting. Dean makes a—noise, and Dad shushes him, and Sam's gut pulses again. He's still hard, his shorts nasty and sticking against his dick, but he can't risk staying any longer.

Painful slow crawl back down the stairs. Slip around back to the living room, the couch. He picks up his shoes and bag and jacket and holds them all tight against his chest and then steps silently across the house, through the kitchen and down the back hall under the stairs to the back door, and then out onto the miniature back porch, back into the stink of outside in the sunlight. He makes sure the door closes silently behind him.

Dad's bedroom is just above, windows looking out on the yard. Sam sinks down to sit with his coat spread over his knees and fumbles open his jeans and yanks out his dick and jerks himself brutally fast, his head grinding back against the siding and those sounds playing on loop between his ears. Dad's hand planted on Dean's back. The bitten-purple wet of Dean's lips, helplessly parted.

When he finishes, when he cleans up (the soiled remains of his Gatsby paper end up in the neighbor's garbage can, balled up), he hides out in the alley for a while, his back against the fence. It reeks back here, too, but there's no one to see him. He scrubs his palms against the grass to try to get rid of some of the stickiness and then hugs his arms around his knees, staring at nothing. The alley blocks the cold breeze. It's warm.

He's loud with the screen door when he unlocks it. Lets it bang into the frame behind him when he comes through into the hall. Dean's sitting folded up at the cracked-linoleum kitchen table, eating ramen noodles out of a coffee mug, and he slurps up the noodle dangling out of his mouth and says, "Jeez, Sammy, you're like a herd of elephants," and then he frowns and looks at his watch. "What are you doing home?"

Dean's wearing a flannel shirt open over his bare chest. His knee's folded up, his heel on the chair, a purple bruise on his shin. Sam shrugs, slings his backpack down with a thump onto the floor, slumps into the other chair. "I kept falling asleep," he says. He leans his elbows heavy on the table. "Figured it wasn't worth sticking around if I wasn't going to remember anything by the end of the day."

Dean raises his eyebrows. "Ditching out, huh?" he says, but there's a grin in the corner of his mouth. "Watch out, you might end up being one of the cool kids."

He drinks down some of the broth in his mug and ignores Sam's eyeroll. When he pushes back from the table Sam sees that he's just wearing boxers—different ones from before. Clean. He slurps the last of the noodles into his mouth and then rattles the mug into the metal sink, turning on the water to swish it out. The water's running upstairs, too. Dad must be in the shower.

"So, cool kid," Dean says, into the sink. He squishes a blop of soap into it, throws in Sam's knife from that morning, coffee mugs, plates that Sam never bothered to wash while he was waiting for them to come home. "Day of freedom. What do you want to do?"

He's standing on one foot, the other idly skimming up and down his calf. There's a mark on the back of his neck—deep red, but not yet black. New. Sam swallows.

Once, when they were staying just outside of Pocatello, Dad was gone for almost a month. It was summer and normally they would've been hunting with him—rather, Dean would've been hunting and Sam would've been stuck on lore duty—but Dad said it was too dangerous and they had to stay behind. They fished in the pond, and hiked up into the hills, and Sam learned how to play darts. Sometimes Dean would just want to stay inside and watch movies, and Sam would go out and walk through the woods alone ( _don't you dare go more than one mile out!; I know, I know_ ), and once, when he came up the steps all quiet with his hair and lungs full of warm sun he put his hand on the screen door and didn't open it and heard Dean crying, inside. He froze. He'd been thirteen for a month and Dad said that was like being a grown-up, now, but all the time he got reminded that he didn't know—anything. At all. He stood there in the shadow of the awning and felt cold, and awkward, and young. Dean had sounded like his heart was breaking. When Sam finally came inside, making a lot of noise, Dean sat up fast and wiped his face and said that he'd been watching Field of Dreams, and to shut up, Sammy. Sam hadn't said anything.

"Hey. Earth to egghead." Dean's half turned around, his elbow leaning on the sink and his hands soapy. More bruises, on his chest, though these ones seem to be from the hunt. He raises his eyebrows at Sam. He's—pretty. Sam blinks, staring at Dean staring back at him. His eyes, and his mouth, and his smooth skin, pale where it's not beat up. He frowns at Sam and shifts his weight and Sam wouldn't have caught the tiny wince if he weren't looking for it. "Are you feelin' okay? You're not sick or something, right?"

"No," Sam says, and has to clear his throat when it comes out all froggy. Not very convincing and Dean's eyebrows swoop lower. "No," Sam says, more firmly. "Just tired, like I said. You guys got back at the crack of dawn. How am I supposed to get any sleep like that?"

Dean rolls his eyes and turns back to the sink. The bow of his legs seems very obvious, from behind. "Sorry we interrupted your beauty sleep with our manly return from war, princess," Dean says, sarcastic, but he drops the sick thing at least.

The water upstairs turns off. Dean glances up at the ceiling. "You think Dad'll give me crap for ditching?" Sam says, quieter.

A shrug, and then Dean pulls the plug on the sink, blasts the tap on to rinse off all the suds. "Might have some extra PT." He wipes his hands dry on his hips, makes dark patches on the green of his boxers, and then leans back against the kitchen counter. He bites the corner of his lip, clearly thinking, and then nods to himself. "Fridge is empty. Wanna go to the store?"

Sam shrugs and Dean rolls his eyes, pushes off the counter with a smooth roll of hips and screws up Sam's hair when he passes the table. "Try not to blow my socks off with all the enthusiasm there, pal," he says. "Hang on."

He's slow up the stairs, doesn't trot up them like usual. Sam closes his eyes, listening. A door opens—the bathroom.

"Hey," Dean says, quiet. "There's no food in the house. You want anything for dinner?"

A pause. "We need more salt," comes Dad's voice, gruff.

Dean huffs. "Yessir," he says, and then he comes down the stairs again—jeans and boots on, a t-shirt under the open flannel. His amulet's swinging over the cracked car logo. He jerks his head at the door and Sam follows him out to the car, settles into the passenger seat. He hardly ever gets to sit up here. Dean sighs when he sinks onto the bench, and he slots the key into the ignition and doesn't turn it.

"Hey," Dean says, looking at the quiet house. Nothing for a second, his hands on the wheel. "How about we go to that arcade in town, first? Pizza for lunch, and then I'll kick your ass at Street Fighter?"

Sam blinks and glances at the house. "No way you beat me," he says, as though there's ever been any other outcome.

Dean blows a raspberry. "I'll beat you with _Dhalsim_ , that's how bad I'm gonna beat you," he says, and the Impala roars to life. He's smiling, at last, when he puts the car in reverse, and he puts his hand on the bench with his thumb brushing Sam's shoulder when he turns around to back it up.

That little touch trickles warm all the way into the pit of Sam's belly. Inside the car it doesn't smell like Greeley—just like gunpowder and old fast food and blood, and Dean, and Dad. Sam pushes his hair back off his forehead. "Best two out of three?" he says, hopeful, and Dean pushes at his face with warm fingers and puts the car into drive and laughs. Sam smiles, and looks out the window when Dean thumps down the accelerator. The world outside passes by so fast.

**Author's Note:**

> [posted here on my tumblr if you'd like to reblog](http://zmediaoutlet.tumblr.com/post/176255323899/perspective)


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